THE BASEBALL SWING is a puzzle, an ever-changing riddle. Even for the best hitters in the world, the fragility of the swing is palpable. Every minuscule detail matters. Batters are not machines, built to replicate the same action countless times before they are replaced. They are human beings aiming to be their most machine-like and grappling with the defect of the endeavor.
Perhaps the best representation of this duality belongs to Corey Seager, the shortstop for the reigning World Series champion Texas Rangers. Seager obsesses over his swing. “I love the process,” he says. “You have to enjoy it to be able to do this, right?” Now in his 10th major league season, Seager has grown into one of the game’s finest hitters as much because of the time he spends fine-tuning his swing as the inherent ability packed into his 6-foot-4, 215-pound frame.
Seager’s left-handed swing is gorgeous, rhythmic, elegant even. It is an aesthetic marvel, its art rooted in its science. Seager is a baseball engineer, building complex processes on the fly. Every movement has meaning and the end product — the swing — is a one-man symphony.
And yet Seager lives with perpetual anxiety, worrying that for all of the time and effort and energy he devotes to his swing, it could desert him at the most inopportune moment. For all of the offense his swing produces, it exists equally as a defense mechanism. Seager’s infatuation is also his torment.
“The fear of failure,” he says. “Failure definitely drives me more than anything else.”
So the man widely regarded as the most clutch hitter of his generation focuses on the most microscopic of details. Little invigorates Seager more than the daily rebuild of his swing. This is the process in action.
“It takes an aggressive humility to say, ‘I’ve been a multiple-time World Series MVP, Rookie of the Year and every day I’m going to start with a blank state,'” Rangers bench coach Donnie Ecker says. “‘How do I put this thing together to be ready at 7 o’clock?’ What I appreciate about Corey is there’s no guessing. He’s not willing to do that.”
Seager understands that his cues are ever-evolving, that swings do not exist in vacuums. Aging can degrade them and injuries can contaminate them, and that’s all before trying to calibrate them for a pitcher marrying 98 on the corner with a bastard back-foot slider and a tumbling splitter just to make hitting even more the fool’s errand. The inherent defensiveness of the batter — every hitter, quite literally, is starting on the back foot — forces Seager to vise-grip everything he can control.
On the cusp of 30 years old, Seager is figuring out who he is and what he can be. And for all the help he receives, all the support offered, hitting is ultimately a solo endeavor. It’s just him and himself, raging against the fear and seeking the peace of the perfect swing and things beyond.
“There is no worse feeling than being in a bad spot in a major league batter’s box,” Seager says. “Knowing you’re in a bad spot and not being able to compete. You’re just by yourself. It’s an empty, bad place to be. You have no chance. These guys are way too good. And nobody’s coming to save you.”
BEFORE EVERY AT-BAT, Seager finds a mirror. At Globe Life Field, he heads for the one next to the batting cage or in the weight room. At the other 29 stadiums around Major League Baseball, Seager knows exactly where he can locate one, because it’s every bit as important to him as the bat he’s going to use at the plate.
When Seager stares into the looking glass, he sees angles. It’s less about mathematics than about comparing the mental snapshot of his most idealized batting stance to how closely he is reproducing it in that particular moment. This varies by the day, even the at-bat. For Seager to be who he aspires…
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